A STRANGER IN THE PEW.-MARY E. DODGE.

Poor little Bessie! She tossed back her curls,
And, though she is often the sweetest of girls,
This was something she couldn't and wouldn't endure;
'Twas the meanest, most impolitic act, she was sure,

And a thing, she declared, that she never would do;
To go to a church where one didn't belong,
Then walk down the aisle like the best in the throng,
And seat one's self plump in another one's pew.

Humph! Didn't her father own his, out and out;
And didn't they fill it up full, just about,
When mamma and papa, and herself and the boys,
Were seated? And didn't their boots make a noise
In moving along to make room for a stranger?
And wasn't it cool, with the brazenest face,
To expect at each hymn pa would find out the place?
(If Ben didn't, or Bob, but there wasn't much danger.)
With such feelings at heart, and their print on her face,
Last Sunday our Bessie hitched out of her “place”
To make room for a girl, very shabby and thin,
Who had stood in the aisle till mamma asked her in.
The poor little thing tried her best not to crowd;
And Bessie, forgetting, soon had the mishap

To slip from her drowsiness into a nap,

From which she awakened by crying aloud.

Poor Bessie sat upright, with cheeks all aflame
At sleeping in church, and we felt for her shame;
But 'twas strange at the close of the service to see
Our Bessie, now gentle as gentle could be,

Take the hand of the shabby young girl in the pew,
And walk with her out of the church with a smile
That shone through the tears in her eyes all the while,
And brightened her face with a radiance new.

Good-by," whispered Bessie at parting, "and mind
Our pew's forty-five, with a pillar behind."

Then she stole to her mother: "O mother, I dreamed
Such a curious dream! "Twas no wonder I screamed.
I thought I was sitting in church in this dress,
With a girl like a beggar-child right in our pew—
We were sitting alone in the seat, just we two-
And I felt more ashamed than you ever could guess;

"When all in a moment, the music grew loud,
And on it came floating a beautiful crowd;

They were angels, I knew, for they joined in the song,
And all of them seemed in the church to belong.

Slowly and brightly they sailed through the air;
The rays from the window streamed crimson and blue,
And lit them in turn as their forms glided through;
I could feel their soft robes passing over my hair.

"One came to my side. Very sadly she said, 'There's a stranger in here.' I lifted my head, And looked at the poor shabby girl with disdain. 'Tis not she,' said the angel; the haughty and vain Are the strangers at church. She is humble and true.' Then I cried out aloud, and the minister spoke,

And just as they floated away I awoke,

And there sat that dear little girl in our pew!"
-Harper's Magazine.

STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN.-MRS. WHITNEY.

Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quite she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there

lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled round shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther her, and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid

hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts to the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round, -an' there shtands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her!

"Ah, ha!" says the ould fox, "I'll soon bring yees down out o' that!" An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An' he wint up the wood, an down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowd where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door.

An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big shtone at his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his ould mother a watchin' for him at the door, he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" An' the ould mother says, "Sure an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he.

An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an' his mother, an schalded them both to death. An' the little rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther.

IS THERE ROOM IN ANGEL LAND?

These lines were written after hearing the following touching incident related by a minister: A mother, who was preparing some flour to bake into bread, left it for a moment, when little Mary, with childish curiosity to see what it was, took hold of the dish, when it fell to the floor, spilling the contents. The mother

struck the child a severe blow, saying, with anger, that she was always in the way. Two weeks after, little Mary sickened and died. On her death-bed, while delirious, she asked her mother if there would be room for her among the angels. "I was always in your way, mother; you had no room for little Mary! And will I be in the angels' way? Will they have room for me?" The brokenhearted mother then felt no sacrifice would be too great, could she have saved her child.

Is there room among the angels
For the spirit of your child?
Will they take your little Mary
In their loving arms so mild?
Will they ever love me fondly,
As my story-books have said?
Will they find a home for Mary—
Mary, numbered with the dead?
Tell me truly, darling mother!

Is there room for such as me?
Will I gain the home of spirits,
And the shining angels see?

I have sorely tried you, mother,
Been to you a constant care,
And you will not miss me, mother,
When I dwell among the fair;
For you have no room for Mary;
She was ever in your way;
And she fears the good will shun her!
Will they, darling mother, say?
Tell me-tell me truly-mother,

Ere life's closing hour doth come,

Do you think that they will keep me,
In the shining angels' home?

I was not so wayward, mother,
Not so very-very bad,

But that tender love would nourish,
And make Mary's heart so glad!
Oh! I yearned for pure affection,
In this world of bitter woe;
And I long for bliss immortal,

In the land where I must go!
Tell me once again, dear mother,
Ere you take the parting kiss,
Will the angels bid me welcome,
To that land of perfect bliss?

THE BLACKSMITH OF RAGENBACH. FRANK MURRAY.

In a little German village,

On the waters of the Rhine;
Gay and joyous in their pastimes,
In the pleasant vintage time;
Were a group of happy peasants,
For the day released from toil,
Thanking God for all His goodness
In the product of their soil;

When a cry rung through the welkin,
And appeared upon the scene,
A panting dog with crest erect,
Foaming mouth and savage mien;
He is mad, was shrieked in chorus,
In dismay they all fell back,
All--except one towering figure,
'Twas the smith of Ragenbach.

God had given this man His image,
Nature stamped him as complete,
Now it was incumbent on him,
To perform a greater feat
Than Horatius at the bridge,

When he stood on Tiber's bank,
For behind him were his townsfolk,
Who, appalled with terror, sank

From the most appalling danger,—
That which makes the bravest quail,—
While they all were grouped together,
Shaking limbs and visage pale.
For a moment cowered the beast,
Snapping to the left and right,
While the blacksmith stood before him
In the power of his might.

"One must die to save the many,
Let it then my duty be,

I've the power, fear not, neighbors;
From this peril you'll be free."
As the lightning from the storm-cloud
Leaps to earth with sudden crash,
So upon the rabid monster

Did this man and hero dash.

In the death-grip then they struggled,
Man and dog with scarce a sound,